


A Case of Identity

by PostcardsfromTheoryland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, John on holiday, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach reunion, Sherlock Whump, Slight Johnlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1600871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PostcardsfromTheoryland/pseuds/PostcardsfromTheoryland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All John wanted was to get away from London for a few weeks. No people pointing and whispering about Sherlock Holmes when he walked past, no reporters wanting an "exclusive" about the dead detective, just some rest and relaxation in the sunshine.  Then again, these holiday trips never seem to go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case of Identity

John had to grudgingly admit that Harry was right: this holiday to Barbados was wonderful. Christmas had been a bust, New Year’s plans with Mike had fallen through, and London’s general dreariness had been getting to him. He’d scoffed when Harry first brought it up, but the lack of people pointing and gawking at “Sherlock Holmes’s poor blogger” was amazingly refreshing. The sunshine was nice, too - he’d found himself a fairly empty park and was enjoying the relative silence with a bit of midday alcohol.

He looked up in alarm from the rum punch he’d been nursing at the sound of shouting. It took him a few seconds, but he found the source: three very burly, muscular men in the alleyway across the street were pounding the shit out of another, slighter one – probably a tourist. Looked like maybe a pick-pocketing or a mugging gone wrong. John hadn’t even needed to think about it – he was ducking into the alley himself, pulling two of the offenders off before he had a chance to consider what he was doing. One of them went down almost immediately – he clearly hadn’t been expecting someone with John’s stature to have such a powerful right hook. He traded a few blows with the second one until the tourist seemed to get his bearings back and threw the remaining thug off of himself. Then, quick as it had started, the two still standing picked up their fallen comrade and fled down the alley.

“Alright?” John asked the other man, not turning to look at him until he was sure the attackers were well and truly gone.

“I’m okay, thanks to you.” He was leaning wearily against the wall, rubbing at his eyes to clear his vision, blood in his hair. American. Would probably be pretty tall if he straightened up. Light brunet, generic brown eyes, and a ridiculous-looking goatee.

And clearly concussed.

“Oi, no you’re not. Come here, I’ll call you an ambulance. What’s your name?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“You’re not bloody fine, you’ve obviously got concussion. I’m calling an ambulance. You’re not getting a choice.”

“No, no, no, please, I’m…I’m nosocomephobic.” John stared blankly at the stranger who was trying valiantly not to sway.

“You’re who?”

“Afraid of hospitals. I’m just – I can’t.”

John contemplated his options. A concussion was a serious injury – there could be intracranial swelling or bleeding and no one would be any wiser without a CT scan. On the other hand, he did seem legitimately panicked by the idea of a hospital, and putting unnecessary stress on the man wasn’t exactly desirable, either.

“Listen, have you got someone to look after you? Make sure you can be woken up, that sort of thing?” There was a moment of hesitation before the stranger nodded, but it was all John needed. Alone now, getting beaten on the street with no one coming to his aid – it wasn’t likely he had a traveling companion. That, and the two-day old stain on his shirt and the frankly awful goatee.

“Seriously, I’ll be fine. Thank you for the help, though. You’re quite the Good Samaritan.”

John wasn’t having it.

“At least let me check you over, yeah?” He grabbed the man’s chin and tilted his head up. Better to just not give him any say in the matter. Harry had laughed at him when he mentioned he still kept a few tools, like his stethoscope and penlight, on him at all times, but now it was proving useful. The wound was bleeding, steadily but not an overly concerning amount, and the man’s pupil response, while predictably sluggish, was not awful. He was about to just give up and send him on his way against medical advice when he noticed an anomaly in the left eye. On first glance, it looked like a bit of heterochromia – odd, that.

“Is the heterochromia new?” he asked, continuing his examination. The look of confusion he got in return was all the response he needed. This didn’t look like a normal case, though: just a sliver of greyish blue on the right side of the iris. Almost like…

“Are you wearing coloured contacts?”

“What? No, of course not.” But there wasn’t any other explanation for it. The lens had probably been nudged out of place when he’d been rubbing at his eye before.

“No, these are definitely contacts. Why would you…” John trailed off, finally registering the familiar colour hidden underneath brown lenses. That wasn’t possible. Must have just been his mind playing tricks on him, or maybe he’d got a good knock on the head, as well. He stepped back, not loosening his grip on the man’s chin for fear he would bolt, and tried to imagine him with dark curly hair and a clean-shaven face and a pretentious coat with the collar turned up and the pieces were falling into place.

“Oh my God…”

“John,” he whispered, the recognisable timbre and accent slipping through now. “I’m sorry. Just forget about this, please. Just forget I was here.” He – Sherlock – tried to pull away but John kept holding on, his other hand coming up to band around Sherlock’s arm.

“I don’t think so. At least not until you – you bastard.”

“John…”

“No,” he cut Sherlock off. “No – you’re – I identified your body. I saw you fall. Why are you not dead?”

“It was necessary.”

“Bullshit. There was not a damn part of that display that was necessary. You lied to me, you fucking – you lied to me.”

“John.”

“No, you don’t get to talk yet. You’re dead. And you let me believe that I couldn’t talk you down from suicide so you could – what? Go on holiday? Were you just bored? Needed to get away for a bit?”

“It’s not like that!” Sherlock protested.

“Oh? Then how is it like?” There was a small part of John that was aware he was shouting, and Sherlock had a head injury and the yelling probably wasn’t doing him any favours, but damn him, John was _angry._

“I – I can’t tell you, John. I need to go, it’s dangerous.”

“The most dangerous thing you need to be worried about right now is me, because I’m really considering finishing the job. You couldn’t have let me know? One word to your Homeless Network, one text, one stupid little letter in the post, Sherlock, that’s _all_ it would have taken! You couldn’t manage that you and expect me to just walk away and let you go on your own?”

“It’s dangerous for you, as well.”

“Bloody brilliant,” John laughed hollowly. “You know, you’re lucky you’re concussed, because I am seriously fighting the urge to bash your head in. Now talk.”

“John, I can’t,” he repeated, tugging futilely at his arm. “I need to stay hidden, off the radar.”

“Not my problem.” The look Sherlock gave him was boarding on helpless panic, but John wasn’t reading to pity him. Not yet. “Look, the fact that you are a fucking arsehole does not change the fact that you are concussed. You’re coming back with me to my hotel room. I’ll keep an eye on you overnight, and you _will_ explain everything. You owe me that much, I’d say. I suppose there’s a reason you’re refusing hospital?”

“I’m supposed to be dead, I can’t risk exposure like that. Just leave, John. I’ll be putting you in danger if I go with you.”

“Of course you would get involved with criminals in the middle of the fucking Caribbean. So you’ve been out playing secret agent and there are people after you, then? And they’ve been watching me, they know me?” Sherlock nodded frantically, and a small part of John was annoyed at the adrenalin rush. “Then they’ll know I’m a doctor. I would hardly let anyone just wander off with an injury. Letting you go on your own would be out of character for me, wouldn’t it?”

“John,” he pleaded miserably, but the battle had already been won.

“Best not to dawdle, then. Hotel’s only a couple blocks away, can you walk that far?” He didn’t even wait for Sherlock to respond before looping one arm around the man’s waist and picking up his discarded duffel with the other. Sherlock sagged a bit, letting his head rest against John’s, but he seemed to be able to walk well enough with the added stability.

The trip to the hotel was uneventful enough; Sherlock had gone silent and John was spending the short walk working through the utter shock that he hadn’t lost Sherlock, after all. Sure, he was a complete bastard, but he was a living bastard.

A living bastard who had better have a damn good explanation for the whole thing.

Getting Sherlock up the staircase was a bit more difficult, but they managed in the end, and John somehow got the door open while still holding Sherlock and his bag. The latter he dropped unceremoniously in the entranceway and the former he shoved toward the bed. It spoke volumes of Sherlock’s condition that he slumped onto it without a complaint or remark of how “perfectly fine” he really was. John left him there and went to the loo, returning with a flannel and a basin of warm water.

“How are you feeling?”

“A bit dizzy,” he admitted.

“Ready to accept that maybe you could use some help, just this once?” Sherlock hummed noncomitantly, the barest hint of a smirk starting to show through. “Bastard,” John repeated, though it lacked some of the ire this time. It was almost as if the last seven months hadn’t even happened and they were back at Baker Street, John patching the detective up after a footchase with a suspect went wrong. He was half-expecting Lestrade to barge into the room and demand their statements.

“I didn’t want to, you know.”

“What?”

“I didn’t want to trick you,” he explained, wincing as John began dabbing at the wound. “It was a necessity.”

“Yeah, you said that before. But I really can’t see why it was necessary to make me think my best friend wanted to kill himself.”

“Your what?” The sentence broke off in a yelp when John pressed a bit too hard at the injury.

“Best friend? You know, that person who’s more important than all your other friends?”

“I was…your best friend?”

“Of course you were. Obviously. Guess you still are, since you couldn’t have the decency to stay dead. Now hold still, you’ve got brick dust in this.”

“Best friend?” Sherlock repeated.

“Well, yes. Is that so hard to believe?”

“I just – never expected...”

“Yeah, well, I never expected you to fake your death by jumping off of a building in front of me. So talk. Why?”

“Moriarty.” John sent him a withering glare before continuing to clean debris out of the wound.

“I sort of figured out it had something to do with Moriarty on my own, actually. I’m going to need a bit more than that.”

“That was his endgame,” Sherlock sighed wearily. “Tarnish my reputation and then force me to finish the job and die in disgrace.”

“You figured it out after we met with that reporter.” It wasn’t a question.

“Kitty Riley, yes,” he confirmed.

“Then why didn’t you...?” John let the sentence trail off, but the intended meaning was easily understood.

“I wanted to avoid it, if possible. Being dead is not exactly a pleasant experience. I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily.”

“Oh, yeah, good job on that.”

“I realise in hindsight there were some things I could have done differently.” Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Suppose I’ll let that one go. So you figured out that you might need to fake your death and then you – what? I met you at St. Bart’s so you must have-” The sentence slammed to a halt. “Molly. Molly knew, didn’t she?”

“I needed someone to write up the false reports,” came the answer. “Mycroft was involved, as well, though I assure you that was not by my choice.”

“You told Molly Hooper and your brother and couldn’t bear to tell me?”

“Neither Molly nor Mycroft were a target like you. There was less risk of something going horribly wrong if I contacted them.”

“What do you mean, target?” Sherlock turned away but John wasn’t having it. He put the flannel down (the bleeding had mostly stopped now, anyway) and tugged Sherlock back toward him. “Talk to me.”

“There were snipers, John.”

“Snipers,” he repeated numbly.

“Yes. On you. And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. And they had orders from Moriarty to shoot you, unless…”

“Unless you jumped off the fucking roof,” John finished for him, and Sherlock nodded a little. “Jesus, I’m going to kill him.”

“Who?”

“Moriarty, of course! Who the bloody hell did you think I meant?”

“I thought Mycroft would have told you that much, at least,” Sherlock said, giving him a grim, almost predatory smile. “Moriarty is dead.”

“You?” It seemed so wrong, after constantly trying to convince everyone that the detective wasn’t actually a psycopath, to think of Sherlock as a killer.

“In a manner of speaking,” he explained. “I deduced he had a recall order for the snipers. He shot himself in the face to prevent me from discovering it.”

“Christ,” was all John could say.

“Not quite,” Sherlock replied with a teasing smirk, “though I appreciate the parallels of resurrection.”

“Oh fuck off, you arse.” It lacked all the heat from earlier and Sherlock could tell, the smirk widening into a real grin. John was left wondering how his life could go so completely pear-shaped in such a short amount of time. Well, there was nothing else for it. He flicked on the kettle on his way to throw the slightly-bloodied flannel into the sink. He took the small carton of milk he’d got for this express purpose out of the minifridge and grabbed the box of PG Tips and sachets of sugar from the counter. Sherlock perked up considerably. They were currently thousands of miles away from England and Sherlock was dead, but they were still British, damnit, and tea solved everything.

“I think I’ve missed this most of all,” Sherlock sighed. John looked up from the mugs in confusion.

“You faked your death and now you’re on the run and all you’ve missed is tea?”

“No, that’s not…” he broke off eye contact and began picking at the duvet. “This. Conversation. Banter.” There was a long pause, during which John mechanically added sugar to Sherlock’s tea (five bags, ridiculous amount). And then, so quietly it was barely audible: “You.”

John didn’t know how to respond to that one, so he settled with just handing him the mug and sitting down next to him. Sherlock automatically leaned into him.

“Still dizzy?” John asked, concerned.

“A bit, but this is…” Sherlock cleared his throat, delaying the rest of the thought with a drink of tea. It was probably still scalding hot, but he didn’t seem to mind. “It’s been awhile since I had human contact from someone who wasn’t actively trying to kill me.” Another sip. “You’re right, though. I’ve missed tea, as well.”

John didn’t respond, letting the conversation slip into a mostly comfortable silence, Sherlock getting progressively heavier against his side. By the time they’d finished the tea, he looked half-asleep.

“Guess it’s been long enough. I’ll let you rest, though I’d still really like to get you to hospital.”

“Not happening, John.”

“Yeah, I know.” John helped him into bed and couldn’t resist pulling the blankets up to his chin. Sherlock gave him a half-hearted grumble in return. “Just sleep, alright? I’ll wake you every couple of hours.”

“This isn’t safe for you,” he argued drowsily.

“It’s fine. I’ll stay awake. Barely evening now, anyway. I’d feel better if I had my gun, though.”

“My bag,” Sherlock said muzzily. “Front pocket.” John obediently rummaged through the duffel, coming up with a very nice handgun. Magnum. Fully loaded. Hadn’t been properly cleaned, though. And the safety was off.

“What the hell, Sherlock?” John hissed. “Keep the damn safety on! Damnit, I dropped this bag earlier!”

“What if I need it in a hurry?” came the slurred response.

“An extra half a second is a better alternative than accidentally shooting yourself! Jesus, Sherlock!”

“’S Fine.”

“It’s not bloody fine! And learn how to properly clean this thing, would you? There’s gravel or something in the bore.” Sherlock simply hummed a bit, sliding too far into sleep to reply. John sent him an angry glare and set about cleaning the weapon for him.

Damn Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

There was someone speaking to him as he woke. For a man trying to bring down a criminal empire mostly by himself, that was never desirable. What had he been doing last that would have led to this? Then there were hands on his shoulders, shaking him awake and the voice was louder and no no no NO NOT GOOD.

Sherlock tried to scramble away, but mostly succeeded in getting tangled in the linens and falling out of the bed. He wasn’t restrained, at least, but it was dark enough that he was having trouble seeing his surroundings. It seemed he’d been drugged, as well – his body wobbly and his mind sluggish. Didn’t matter. Had to get up, had to get out, had to

“Sherlock!”

John.

A click of a light switch. The hotel room. Right. Of course.

And then John was kneeling in front of him, looking white and shaken as Sherlock struggled to get his breathing under control.

“Jesus, Sherlock. What have you been doing since you left London?” John was…concerned? He’d definitely been angry only hours before. But yes, concerned. Hand on Sherlock’s forehead now, checking for a fever. “You alright? You don’t feel warm at all.”

“Fine, yes. Like I said, I haven’t exactly had an overabundance of friendly human contact. Just couldn’t remember where I was, that’s all.” He hoped John would brush off his reaction, but the look he was getting in return clearly said it wasn’t going to happen. Instead, he placed his hands back on Sherlock’s shoulders and tugged, ever-so-slowly, until the detective was leaned up against his chest, John’s arms wrapped snuggly around him, holding him in place.

A hug.

Well, sort of, since all Sherlock could do for several seconds was blink in surprise. John didn’t let go, though, and eventually Sherlock allowed himself to calm down enough to respond. The temptation to return the gesture was strong, but that would be too much – too real. So he let himself simply relax, his body slumping into John’s hold, head on John’s shoulder, and felt his heart-rate slow into a more normal rhythm. One of John’s hands came up to run through his hair, checking the injury, and the last of Sherlock’s tension dissipated completely.

“I should have left a light on.”

“Hmm?”

“A light,” John repeated. “Figured you’d sleep better in the dark. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Sherlock looked around, now that he could actually process their surroundings. He’d drawn the curtains, as well – probably a good idea.

“Were you just standing guard in the dark?”

“Did for a couple of minutes,” John admitted, “before I decided that was sort of overkill. I was reading.”

“In the dark.”

“Harry got me one of those e-readers for Christmas.” John chuckled as Sherlock made a derisive snort. “Yeah, I know, you and your ‘only antique first edition autographed copies are real books.’ She preloaded it with a bunch of mystery detective novel things, and you were right. They’re rubbish after you do the real thing.”

“Of course I was right,” Sherlock murmured. John’s hand was still in his hair, just combing through the curls now (no matter what he did, short of chopping it all off, he couldn’t get his hair to straighten). This was – he hesitated to use the banal word – nice. And if he was slowly being lulled back to sleep it was only because he had suffered a blow to the head not four hours prior. But then he noticed an out-of-place scent, and it was probably nothing, but he should ask anyway.

“Does it mean anything about concussion if you can smell bacon?”

“What?” John laughed. “Oh, no. I got us room service.” He reluctantly let go and stood up, and Sherlock stamped down the (fairly large) part of himself that protested at the movement. Sherlock pulled himself up stiffly, glancing at the clock.

“Breakfast? At seven in the evening?”

“Most important meal of the day,” John shrugged. “Besides, they didn’t have Chinese and this was the next best thing. I’m sure this whole endeavour is just like one big case to you, and I know how you are on cases. So you’re eating. No arguments.”

“It started out as a case,” Sherlock agreed as he wearily sat in the suite’s little dining area, “but it’s grown decidedly less enjoyable as time goes on.” John shot him another concerned look before lifting the cloches off the trays and revealing an exorbitant amount of food. John must have noticed his expression, because he shrugged again.

“Might as well. I’m not paying for it.”

“What do you mean?” But even as the question was leaving his mouth, the answer was obvious. John was not a rich man, probably less so now that he was paying for the flat at Baker Street by himself. The posh suite, the expense of the trip itself: God, why couldn’t Mycroft stay out of it?

“Did you inform my brother of your plans?”

“Sort of,” John answered, picking up a frankly enormous blueberry muffin. “I told him I wanted to get away for awhile, someplace warm, figured he owed me. It was ridiculously easy, took less than a week before Mycroft had set the whole –” John broke off abruptly, dropping the pastry and staring at Sherlock. “Mycroft set the whole thing up.”

“I’m going to murder him.”

“No, Sherlock, for once I’m glad for his interference. I don’t want to think how you would have fared against those thugs by yourself. But don’t think this means that I’m not still bloody angry at you.”

“Noted,” Sherlock replied as John shoved a plate of eggs at him. Might as well, if it was on Mycroft’s tab anyways.

“What’s next on your agenda, then?”

“Not sure. I’ll need to track down whoever it was that sent those ‘thugs,’ as you so aptly termed them. I’ve got some ideas, of course, but I’ll need to confirm.”

“Right,” John nodded. “You should contact Mycroft, as well. You’ll need another gun.”

“What? Why?” The pistol looked in pristine condition, nestled snuggly next to John’s ridiculous electronic book device. “My gun seems fine.”

“Well yeah, but we can’t share one gun between the two of us.” Sherlock bolted upright, dishes clattering together, as he grasped the implication of that sentence.

“No.”

“Sherlock, like it or not, you need help. You were outmatched today. What if I hadn’t happened to be there, hmm? You could have died, really died this time, and it’s bloody likely that it will happen again.”

“No, John, this is – No. It’s too dangerous, and you are not coming.”

“Then you’re not going!” John thundered back. “Damnit, Sherlock, I just got you back, and I’m not going to lose you again!”

Sherlock turned on his heel and made a dash for the duffel left on the floor. It would look suspicious, him fleeing from a hotel room, but if he could just move fast enough, John wouldn’t be able to follow.

He’d forgotten, though, that he was still rather concussed. John beat him handily, pinning Sherlock’s arms to his sides as the man struggled to get away.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, stop, please.”

“You can’t, John,” he gasped.

“Alright, calm down. Can we go back to the table and discuss this like adults?”

“This isn’t up for debate. John, the snipers are still out there, I haven’t found them yet, and you can’t just – it isn’t safe for you.”

“It isn’t safe for you, either,” John shot back, leading him to the table and shoving him into the chair.

“I’m not entirely alone. Mycroft’s agents are helping, as well.”

“Yes, they were a great help while you were getting beaten to a pulp today. What do you want me to do? Go back home and sit in the flat, waiting for news like some army spouse until one day Mycroft calls me up and says you’re not coming back after all because someone’s put a bullet through your brain?”

“Better than someone putting a bullet through yours,” Sherlock snarled. He continued sullenly stabbing the eggs before noticing that John had gone silent. He backtracked through his last sentence, cringing inwardly. Oh.

“I just meant that you’d be at a higher risk. There’s still someone out there who has every intention of shooting you if the situation arises. I’d rather you didn’t willingly antagonise him.”

“And what happens when someone in this organisation cottons on and realises you’re not actually dead? Wouldn’t both of us be safer if we knew what we were dealing with?”

“That is… a fair point,” Sherlock conceded unhappily. “But an association with you would also be liable to expose me.” They glared at each for several minutes before John finally turned away.

“Eat your dinner,” he grumbled.

“Breakfast.”

“Eat, and then get some more sleep. But this discussion is far from over.”  


* * *

John woke with a start and a crick in his neck, briefly confused about why he’d decided to sleep in the armchair before yesterday’s events came rushing back.

He’d dutifully woken Sherlock every two hours, wearing his excuses down each time. Finally, Sherlock had been forced to admit that John’s help would be, as he put it, “beneficial.” They’d stay there a couple more days as Sherlock coordinated with Mycroft to get John the necessary supplies, and then they’d be off. He stood up to rouse the man again.

The bed was empty.

Sherlock’s bag was suspiciously vacant from the hall, the gun absent from the table, and the loo was decidedly not occupied.

Damn it, damn _him_ , of course Sherlock had bolted at the first opportunity. Idiot was still recovering and now he’d gone straight back into whatever hellish plot he’d briefly left.

Before he could get any angrier, his mobile gave a cheerful ping from the counter.

_(Number Blocked)  
I do apologise for that, but it’s much easier to conceal one person from a massive criminal organisation than two._

A second message came through only moments later.

_If you don’t find me utterly despicable after all this, ask him to get you a secure connection._

John didn’t even need to think about who “he” was – he’d certainly be planning to give Mycroft a piece of his mind anyways. Might as well do it now. His only regret was that it was already afternoon in London – it would have been much more satisfying to call at about three in the morning.

He angrily jabbed the number on his mobile (and what did it say about him that he still had Sherlock’s brother on speed dial?). Mycroft answered before the second ring.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” John demanded as a greeting.

“Ah, John. I take it you’ve met with Sherlock, then? Tell me, how is my brother?”

“Concussed, for one. I thought you were supposed to have people watching him, where the fuck were they?”

“Waiting for you to intervene, of course. They had everything under control.”

“Right, yeah, that’s exactly what ‘under control’ looks like to me, Sherlock getting beat to shit in some back alley. What are you playing at?” There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, the first sign that Mycroft’s patience was wearing thin.

“I am ‘playing at’ the very delicate procedure of dismantling a vast criminal empire while simultaneously making sure my brother doesn’t do anything too recklessly stupid. He wanted to undertake this entire exercise on his own – I spent several weeks dissuading him of that notion, only to have him charge impulsively forward at the first hint of a lead,” Mycroft sighed wearily. “We both foolishly assumed this would take much less time than it is, and Sherlock is getting…dare I say, homesick. Your desire for a holiday seemed to be the perfect remedy. I was rather hoping you could force some sense into him, but it appears you were unsuccessful.”

“Yeah, well, he’s Sherlock. You try talking him out of something he’s already decided on,” John scoffed. “He’s texted, though. Said you could set up some kind of secure line for me?”

“Yes, I could do that. There would need to certain restrictions of course, but it might help temper his…instability. You can expect something to arrive by courier within the next day.” The line went dead without another word, and John groaned when he realised he’d just willingly stuck himself back in the middle of the Holmes brothers’ machinations. There must be something wrong with him. It could be worse, though – less than 24 hours ago, Sherlock had been dead.

He was still angry at both of them both, but he could only really communicate with one of them. Which meant that Mycroft was going to receive a very strongly-worded email about keeping Sherlock safe and that he expected full disclosure from now on and most importantly how lying about his brother’s death was just not on. He knew, realistically, that Mycroft probably wouldn’t even read it, but it was the thought that counts. John was about to get up and toss his phone aside when he noticed a third text message waiting for him. It was reassuring, and he couldn’t resist smiling at it.

_I’ve missed you. -S_


End file.
